


Let Me Dance for You

by Zoffoli



Series: SHERLOCK DANCE SERIES [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoffoli/pseuds/Zoffoli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can't be serious." </p><p>"Oh but I am. Well, I probably won't look very serious lap dancing in our living-room, but... Please let me dance for you, Sherlock." </p><p>Or how to cure a trauma with another kind of trauma. Johnlock, hurt/comfort, angst, humour. For music lovers too :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> ****Disclaimer: **** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, Arthur Conan Doyle and in their BBC version Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Stephen Thompson. The original characters and plot are mine. For this fic I have also had recourse to John's blog (the official BBC site) written by Joseph Lidster – I wanted to keep John in character as much as possible, so I even took up some recurring words or expressions he uses (especially when concerning Sherlock). All the cases mentioned here also appear on the blog – I take no credit whatsoever. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
>  **A/N:** Here is **the sequel to my story _'I like to watch you dance'_**. Hope you enjoy! ****  
> Edit: This story has been very kindly beta-ed by TheRimmerConnection. I take full responsabilty for any mistake or oddity that is left, it just means I was wrong not to listen to her ;)
> 
> ** Warnings:This is a hurt/comfort fic with adult contents and some angst from the characters' study. Rated M for a reason, so please read with caution. **

 

.

* * *

_oOo_

* * *

**Let Me Dance for You**

.

* * *

John had never been so desperate to find Sherlock since he had first met the consulting detective. To be fair, just this morning they had been kidnapped by Moriarty's henchmen and brought to a basement room where the madman had asked Sherlock to _strip dance,_ or else John would be shot.

What a wacko. Then he had just left, gloating and all self-satisfied, and John had never wanted to kill someone so much – that is, until Sherlock had left himself, leaving John tied to a chair, and basically given him his farewell before walking out of the door like he was about to drown himself in the Thames. Which he probably was about to do, in fact.

Hence John's panic, overriding his fury and his shock – and yes, he had been shocked to see his friend shatter to pieces under the touch, gaze and above all, _words_ of a psycho. Shocked to see the depths of self-disgust and despair and _emptiness_ in those clever eyes. He felt sick because his partner had been forced into something degrading and _he_ had been used against him... It had been worse than the Pool.

John was no genius, but forcing someone to act like your personal slut while pointing a gun at their best friend's head, especially when said someone was a virgin and only considered their body as _transport,_ was pretty devious even for Moriarty. He had seen right through them, the doctor thought bitterly. And John had been ashamed of his own reaction because _God_ Sherlock was gorgeous. It was already hard enough keeping his manhood in check when Sherlock was running around the flat half-naked under his dressing gown, but watching him _dance_ like that, _more_ than just half-naked, really had been too much. And he hated himself for it. But now really wasn't the time to wallow in guilt and self-hatred. John had seen the look on the detective's face when he had left the room. He was terrified of what Sherlock intended to do.

Sherlock didn't understand why anyone should worry about what other people thought. He never bothered with the rules of society, not out of rebellion, but because he didn't see the point: not caring enhanced his lucidity and thought processes. His arrogance was so forthright that it was close to candour: hence his addictiveness. He managed to be at once insufferable and endearing, brilliant and clumsy. _Enthralling, and bloody clueless_ , John added mentally. Sherlock was a genius, but he was such a child as well. He kept his distance because everything was so foreign to him – _irrational_. It confused him. Maybe even scared him, since there was nothing logical to hold on to. Or perhaps he feared what he would discover, were he to follow his deduction about his own reactions to its end.

He'd been confused against Irene Adler. Terrified in Baskerville. How could he cope with this? That hyperactive child. That impossible man.

John had to find him.

He couldn't care less about the injury on his left shoulder – yes, the _renewed_ one because said wacko had found it amusing to play around with a fucking knife as well. And who was that guy anyway? _Sebastian_. John shrugged it off and kept running around London looking for Sherlock. Of course, he had put Mycroft onto it as well, but he didn't really trust Holmes the elder to keep him up to date if his little brother didn't want him to. Well, at least he would keep Sherlock safe. Wouldn't he? In fact, being found by _Mycroft_ of all people could be the last straw, considering the state Sherlock had been in when John last saw him. He had called the paramedics, of course, but still _–_ leaving him there after having made it clear he intended to never come back... And that _idiot_ had purposefully left his phone behind to boot!

 _God, if I find him and he's still alive, I might just kill the git_.

John felt a chill run down his spine at the thought. Of course he was alive. He must be. John swallowed with difficulty. What could he do? What in the world could he, little, ordinary John Watson, do so Sherlock Holmes didn't throw his life away just because he had been broken and humiliated in the worst possible way, _all because of him_?

_Oh. So that's it._

John considered the thought for a moment, then dialled Mycroft's number.

* * *

ooOoo

* * *

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Making Sherlock believe John was basically dying in hospital and calling him to his side was indeed insane, but John had no doubts that Mycroft knew _where_ his brother was, even if he didn't dare approach him – and in that respect, John had to agree. The best way was to make the detective _come to him_ _._ His only friend. His flatmate. His partner, for God's sake! Although that word didn't hold the meaning John now realized he wished it would.

Moriarty had given them quite the lesson indeed. Not that John Watson would ever admit it. But the madman had been right: he had been aroused by Sherlock's dance, and _no_ he wasn't gay, but as dear Miss Adler had so kindly put it, that obviously didn't seem to matter in regards to Sherlock bloody Holmes. Indeed. Well, John was past denial. Or so he thought. In fact, he understood that giving in to the "I'm married to my work" crap and "I don't _do_ feelings", believing in some kind of asexual Sherlock, had only been a more elaborate kind of denial. He could never be sure about Sherlock's sexual inclination, but John knew his friend wasn't a sociopath, knew he _did_ have feelings, albeit twisted ones (but then again, normal was boring). Knew he cared about him. Knew _he_ was the closest to a relationship Sherlock had ever had. And also knew that _he_ was supposed to be the experienced one here. But precisely because this was all so confusing, he just hadn't been sure about _any_ of the signals and hadn't wanted to risk what they had for, what? The same, with sex? Not worth it. Not worth risking losing Sherlock as a friend, flatmate and colleague.

But where had that led them to? Here he was, pretending to be dying so the man he loved but never confessed to (because he was too stubborn and too self-conscious and too _fucking insecure)_ wouldn't kill himself because of him. And because of Moriarty – John wasn't going to take all the blame for this, even if he did feel guilty; the one who had done all the damage was still the criminal mastermind, although he had been using John

Sherlock could always see right through everyone, no matter how you tried to hide. He certainly wasn't used to being the one read like an open book. But he'd had such a twisted relationship with Moriarty. John could still remember how excited the detective had been upon first hearing the name (from the quivering lips of a dying man – it surely had added effect), and also his thrill at being targeted by a criminal mastermind – a real, clever one. A true _alter ego_ , worthy of being his arch-enemy. Even more so than Mycroft, and that was no small task. The perfect nemesis for the most thrilling game of all, the ideal cure for boredom – a threat always looming and yet to be caught. Someone who could understand him absolutely.

Sherlock had never hated Moriarty. They just happened to be on different sides (and that was for the best – how dull would it have been otherwise!). It was a game, not a feud. Then there had been the pool incident, and Sherlock's attitude had changed slightly. A little graver, maybe. It had been like a kid's first slap – when they learn a hand can hurt.

All of a sudden the door was slammed open frantically. A trembling and extremely pale Sherlock, very much like the one who had left him tied to the chair in the basement, entered the hospital room and stopped abruptly as he came face to face with John.

"John.. You.. you're not... _Oh_..."

Now he was hyperventilating and his knees couldn't support him any more. As he fell once again he hoped this would be the last time, hoped he could just disappear from the world. But instead he felt a pair of strong, warm arms catch him and hold him tight, as their owner kept muttering something under his breath – death threats, it seemed.

"Sherlock I swear to God if you ever do this to me again I _will_ kill you do you understand? I have a gun but I can use my hands as well, so you really shouldn't underestimate me, there are so many ways I could..."

Sherlock was only hearing the words from afar, as if they weren't exactly directed to him.

"You lied..."

"Had to. You wouldn't have come back."

At this, Sherlock jumped and thrashed against John, trying to leave once more.

"You made this up. I thought you'd _..._ "

"AND SO DID I!"

John's roar echoed through the corridor and Sherlock froze. The doctor was clearly enraged, now.

"How dare you. How _dare_ you! What do you think you're doing fleeing like a criminal? You did nothing _wrong_ Sherlock, that _maniac_ played you, so please don't let him get to you even more."

Sherlock's gaze was cold and emotionless as he stared back at his friend.

"Don't worry. He can't. He's already got everything."

John shook his head, and noticed the nurses coming towards them.

"Right. Listen, Sherlock, can we take this conversation to Baker street? I think we're not very welcome here. Ready for a run?"

Sherlock looked startled for a second, and John was almost sure he had seen a flash of fear traverse that icy gaze; but then he just nodded curtly. The doctor felt a chill at the change in attitude. This remoteness was much worse than panic, he thought. Such frostiness couldn't bode well. This was Moriarty's work after all, so he shouldn't have expected anything less. Moriarty had stripped Sherlock of everything he thought he owned – his music, his mind, his heart... or so the detective thought anyway.

_But here you're wrong, Sherlock. He hasn't. He really hasn't._

He made sure not to let go of his hand as they ran out of the hospital and took a cab to go home.

* * *

OoOoO

* * *

"We need to talk."

"Yes, John, I somehow grasped that from the word _conversation."_

The doctor put the two cups of tea he'd just made on the table and stared at Sherlock who was still standing, stiff and sharp.

"Right. Maybe you're not too far gone if you can still manage sarcasm. Won't you sit down?"

"No. I'm not staying."

John arched an eyebrow.

"I thought you just agreed..."

"If you had paid attention, you would have noticed that I merely pointed out one of your redundancies – _again_."

The smaller man blinked.

"Good. Good, you're doing better. Acting like a twat again."

"Exactly. Now if you don't mind..."

Sherlock started walking to the door, and the good doctor was suddenly fed up with it.

"Stop it. Stop it _right now_ , Sherlock. You're being so childish!"

This time something seemed to snap in the detective's eyes and John recognized the irritation and virulence and sheer terror he had witnessed once on Dartmoor.

"Yes, back to normal, see? Everything is perfectly fine, nothing is wrong with me. I can tell just from a look at you that you were supposed to have a date tonight, had planned to phone Clara because it's her birthday but haven't had the leisure to do so, are feeling frustrated and tired and angry, but also guilty and you've been worrying all day long so that now you've turned into a convoluted mix of soldier gone berserk and mother hen – a very interesting mix, might I add. Also you forgot to call the clinic about that red-haired patient of yours you've been concerned about and whom you were expecting to see this afternoon – maybe a beginning of anorexia but she doesn't seem to be willing to talk about it to anyone but you. You've been looking all morning – well, before we were kidnapped anyway – for the shopping list you made yesterday and which included the ingredients you'll need to cook whatever funny scone recipe Mrs. Hudson gave you on Tuesday – the list's under the fridge, by the way."

He said it all so quickly John could have sworn it had been in one breath.

"See? Nothing wrong with me at all. Well, nothing except that I managed in the span of a few hours to be outsmarted by my worst enemy, strip dance and ejaculate in front of my flatmate, before said flatmate thought it smart to fake dying so we could _talk about it_. Perfectly fine, as you see. Don't you get it? There's nothing to talk about!"

"You're conveying that with quite a lot of words."

Sherlock glared at him, but John glared back.

"Just take a seat. Please. We don't have to talk if you don't want to."

John noticed that his friend's pale hands were shaking slightly as he looked intently at the kitchen chair. Then it sank in. Right. The chair. Not good.

"Stop it."

John looked back at Sherlock, surprised.

"Don't even try to start analysing me."

John shrugged.

"Listen, I know you're shaken, but..."

"No you don't. You don't _know_ anything. You have no idea... You were there and you were made to watch but you don't _observe_ and you don't _deduce,_ you're just stupid and ordinary and this is unbearable!"

John took the blow and let the pain it triggered wash over him. Sherlock seemed to have reached his limit.

"Just let go... let me go..."

John took a step towards him.

"Sherlock, please..."

"NO! You weren't the one being despoiled of everything in front of... of..."

"Shh..."

John had closed the distance and was hugging his rigid partner who stiffened at the touch, then seemed to break to pieces and pushed him back frantically.

"Stop it! Just _stop_ this, will you? I don't want your compassion, I could feel the pain and the disgust in your eyes and I even _apologized_ that you had to witness such a despicable and repulsive thing, and I'm sorry they still hit you and damaged your shoulder even more but I... I..."

Without warning his face went blank and he fell quiet. His gaze became hollow and he just stood there like a deficient doll. The silence stretched and filled the room, exacerbating the distance between the two men. John grew cold and felt a shiver run down his spine. He took a tentative step.

"Sherlock..?"

His friend didn't react. John swallowed. He was shutting himself off from the world – right now the _world_ being John.

"Please don't do this. Stay with me. Sherlock?"

He sighed. Too late. Talking may not have been such a great idea after all. But seriously, they had been arguing just a few minutes prior to this unendurable silence, so what could have triggered _this_? Oh.

"Sherlock?"

He put a hand on the limp shoulder and pressed softly.

"Listen, I'm not... I didn't get a concussion and that was lucky. Also, the shoulder isn't that bad – I mean, it has endured much worse, believe me."

Still no reaction. Sherlock kept staring at the emptiness surrounding him. He had obviously retreated somewhere – his mind palace maybe? John shook his head. No, from what he had witnessed, Moriarty had made sure to blow that up too. Not that Sherlock couldn't rebuild it – discover other paths, new corridors and bridges that had never been found. Of that John was convinced – but he needed to get the message across to the sleuth.

"Sherlock. Let's sit down. Come here," he said firmly, bringing him to the couch. He didn't dare be too gentle, seeing how Sherlock had reacted just before turning mute.

"Okay, this is going to be awkward, but... You need to hear this. You're right, I was disgusted. With Moriarty, for one thing, and with myself too. Because it pained me to see you go through this just so the maniac wouldn't shoot me, and I was so frustrated to be that... powerless. There was nothing I could do but look at you."

At this Sherlock tensed slightly. John took a deep breath.

"Sherlock, you were beautiful."

The detective didn't move, but John was sure something had flickered behind those dead pupils. So he swallowed and went on, gathering his courage.

"You were beautiful, and I never wanted you so much. There, I said it."

He looked up and saw his flatmate staring at him in shock. Their eyes locked, and Sherlock's widened a little more. Then he averted his gaze.

"The only despicable and repulsive thing in that room was Moriarty. Well, and maybe that Sebastian guy, whoever he is."

Sherlock glanced back at him in surprise. John sighed.

"Yes, Sherlock, I feel guilty, because you were being _tortured_ no matter how we look at it and it still turned me on. But don't you see? That's what Moriarty _wants_! He's playing with our minds. I didn't want you because you were being humiliated and shred to pieces. I wanted you because you were gorgeous and I've always wanted you, from day one – don't tell me you had no clue, I wouldn't believe you. You must have understood even before I did. It's not like I was very subtle about it when we met either. Even if it took a madman messing with you to make me admit it..."

Sherlock was staring blankly at the carpet. This wasn't working. John took his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. Of course it wasn't. This was _Sherlock_. How could he have thought for one second that doing this the _normal_ way would help? Sherlock had been right – as always. Talking was not the thing to do. Moriarty's scheme had been much more _total_ : it didn't involve only words, but movements and touches too, as well as shocking images and lasting impressions. Brilliant, indeed – but nothing less than that could have brought Sherlock to his knees. Nothing less than that could get him up again.

 _Obviously_. John smirked upon imagining his friend's comment. Of course. If Moriarty could get under the detective's skin using John, then John himself could definitely do as much. The psychopath had needed him to ruin Sherlock, but John certainly didn't need Jim in order to reach his partner and remind him of how amazing he was. _You don't observe and you don't deduce, you're just stupid and ordinary and this is unbearable!_ Oh, but on that point, Sherlock was wrong – Sherlock, Sherlock, always the exception.

"I observe you," John said in a whisper.

He had to get under Sherlock's skin, huh? Then he would do just that.

* * *

OoOoO

* * *

" _No_ , Mycroft, I do _not_ need your help on this! And do not even think of putting cameras in the flat, because I will find them and get rid of them – and if I don't, believe me, you will _not_ like what you see!"

John hung up ragingly. Really, could Big Brother be any more annoying? He knew perfectly well that John was right – or if he didn't, he could only trust him with this anyway. He was just interfering for the sake of it.

Sherlock had retreated quietly to his room a while ago and John had let him – he was worried about him, but he had checked the room for any unwanted substances or blades or whatever crazy things the detective could hide, and had made sure he couldn't open the window without John hearing him. He didn't trust him right now, but he also didn't want to make him feel like a child in need of a baby-sitter, and he wanted to show him he still had the right to have some privacy. And since Sherlock didn't even bother closing the door of his room, the doctor thought this would be fine. Besides, he didn't intend to leave him alone for long – in fact, he was just looking up on the internet the information he needed to make this right again, when he heard someone climbing loudly up the steps and entering their flat unannounced.

"John!"

He looked up and sent a little strained smile to Lestrade.

"Hey, Greg."

The D.I. walked up to him and stood by the table.

"I've heard you were kidnapped this morning – why in the world didn't you contact the police? Why didn't you contact _me_?"

He sounded genuinely hurt, and John felt slightly bad about it, but he still hated the paramedics for getting in touch with the police when he had specifically told them to just drop it. Sherlock wasn't ready for that. But Lestrade cared for him, and he deserved an explanation.

"Listen, I'm sorry, but something happened and..."

"Of course something bloody happened! You were _kidnapped_ John!"

"I've been quite aware, thank you!"

The two men stood there glaring at each other. Finally John sighed and gave up the staring contest, glancing at the corridor leading to Sherlock's door.

"Look, there's no point in shouting. Can we just talk outside?"

Now Lestrade truly started to worry.

"What happened to him? Is he hurt?"

"Worse than that. But I'm working on it."

The D.I.'s gaze landed on the screen of John's laptop. He stared at it dumbly.

"By looking up lap dancing tutorials?"

John sighed.

"Yes."

"Do I want to know?"

"No."

"Right. But... are you sure about this?"

"Quite."

"Well, you're the doctor. But if Sherlock went through anything traumatic, maybe it'd be better if he talked to someone... You know, a therapist or something..."

They looked at each other for a second, then burst out laughing.

"See?"

"Yeah, yeah, that sounded absurd, I mean, it's _Sherlock_... Besides, if he needs anyone, that'll be you. Just... take care, you know? Of yourself, too. I think you're good to Sherlock, but..."

"He's good for me too."

If Lestrade noticed the change of prepositions, he did not point it out.

"Good. That's good. Well, you know where to find me."

"Thanks, Greg. Really. I appreciate it."

Lestrade shrugged and left. John breathed deeply and only then felt a deep blush creeping onto his cheeks. This plan was mad.

Just then Mrs. Hudson decided to pay them a little evening visit. John held back a sigh – oh, she was going to fuss.

"Hello, dear! I've just met Detective Inspector Lestrade downstairs and he said you were kidnapped this morning! I hope you weren't badly hurt – I mean this is common business with Sherlock, but..."

"We'll be fine, Mrs Hudson, thank you."

She seemed rather sceptical, but then her face broke into a trusting smile.

"Right, of course you will. Oh and I found a new jam recipe, if you have some time you should come down tomorrow for a cuppa to try it out. Have a lovely evening!"

"Yes, you too Mrs Hudson. Thank you."

She shut the door and trotted down the stairs. John shook his head, smiling. Then he turned and realized he hadn't checked on Sherlock for a while – more than a half hour at least.

He walked down the corridor and entered the sombre room. Sherlock hadn't turned the light on yet – not that the light in his room was very bright to begin with, but this was downright gloomy. The sleuth was sitting on his bed, and at first John thought he was staring at the periodic table hanging on his wall. But he wasn't. He was only staring into the void. When John entered though, he turned and looked him blankly in the eye. As if on cue, he laid himself down onto the mattress, spreading his legs slightly, body limp. John's eyes widened at the implication – and the hollowness in his friend's irises only strengthened his nausea.

He understood that Sherlock had just been sitting there _waiting_ for him to come and have his way. He must have deduced this from John's little confession earlier. This was the most absurd deduction he'd ever made, though – not to mention horrifying.

"Oh God, Sherlock."

John was at a loss for words, and struggled to find them.

"This is a misunderstanding."

He thought he saw an imperceptible flash of hurt in his partner's vacuous gaze, and quickly added:

"You're not a harlot or a broken puppet or whatever image that psycho ingrained into your mind. You're you. Just you."

John could read in his eyes every unsaid word. He sat on the bed without unlocking their gazes. Sherlock's body remained lifeless.

"I owe you a dance."

The pale eyes said _You can't be serious._

 _"_ Oh but I am. Well, I probably won't look very serious, lap dancing in our living-room, but... Please let me dance for you, Sherlock."

At the mention of lap dancing Sherlock's gaze flickered with something like fear. John took his hand.

 _"_ You've got to overcome this. I'm not giving up on any tender gesture, nor on any part of your body, just because a maniac jumbled your mind. I'm not giving up on you – on this."

He pulled Sherlock up so he would be in a sitting position, and stood up himself.

 _"_ Just wait for me in the living-room, all right? I won't be long."

He put the kettle on in the kitchen and went to his own quarters. He certainly wouldn't dress outrageously (some tutorials had advised high heels, short skirts or pants, low cut tops.. or for men, mainly leather. Well, that wasn't going to happen). Sherlock had been dressed normally after all – well, normally for him, meaning he looked like his usual gorgeous self. But that was the point: John had to look like himself too, something Sherlock would be familiar with, but used in an unfamiliar way – wasn't that exactly what perversion was about? He wouldn't go for the uniform, either – too clichéd, and this wasn't so much about fantasies as about _them_. Just them. John wanted to show Sherlock that he owned his own body and mind, that they were his and his alone, and that he was free to do whatever he wanted with them – that it wasn't wrong or shameful to have a body that didn't boil down to mere _transport_ , even when you were a genius. Especially if you were one, perhaps.

So he put on Sherlock's favourite jumper (that is, the only one he hadn't openly criticized), without any shirt under it, and just a regular pair of jeans, plus his old cane – could always be useful. Then he went back to the living-room. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, as still as a statue.

John took one of the three wood and leather chairs around the table and put it next to the couch, putting his cane down onto the floor next to it. He went to the kitchen and came back with two cuppas which he placed on the small table by his friend's side. Having turned on one of the smaller lights and pulled the curtains, he finally looked at Sherlock and noticed the tension in his body as he was eyeing the chair pointedly.

 _"_ Yes, Sherlock, it has to be a chair, not just the couch. That's the whole point. Obviously you can't delete what happened this morning, so we have to find some other way. Will you trust me with this?"

Sherlock's eyes remained shut from the world and he didn't answer. After a few seconds, however, he stood up from the couch and went to sit on the chair. A shiver ran down his spine as his arms and his back and buttocks collided with the wood. He closed his eyes.

 _"_ Oh, Sherlock..."

John walked up to him, knelt down and took his hands in his, appalled by their coldness.

 _"_ You'll have to keep looking at me. Here."

He took the gun out of his back pocket and gave it to Sherlock, whose eyes widened at the trust this implied.

 _"_ You'll be the one holding the gun this time. Since you're not talking, if you want me to stop, just shoot the wall."

Then he smiled.

 _"_ I promise I'll be the one meeting Mrs. Hudson at the door. All right?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but took the gun. John nodded, their eyes still locked. Then his face became grave.

 _"_ You can stop this any time you want."

He didn't need to develop the full meaning of that sentence. His eyes conveyed most of it, and he knew Sherlock knew. _I'll give you everything I have. But if this isn't enough, if_ I _am not enough, then you're holding the means to make it all stop._ Still, he added in a determined tone:

 _"_ It is loaded. _Two_ bullets."

Sherlock's face darkened and John thought he would just shoot the wall right away. But he didn't, so the doctor continued.

 _"_ You can touch me in any way you'd like, but you don't _have_ to. Do you understand?"

The vulnerability John saw in the bare pupils answered his question clearly enough. Although his face and body were as expressionless as ever, the detective's eyes were slowly coming back to life – very, very slowly. At least John could tell he was looking – really looking – at him. He stood back up and moved a few steps away.

He realized now how hard it was to get started without music playing, but Sherlock hadn't had any either, and John thought it made the whole thing all the more tantalising – irrationally so. However that was _Sherlock_. John didn't know how to keep an imaginary beat going in his mind while stripping in front of someone, especially when said someone was so _distracting_. Sherlock had had an incentive – the gun pointed to John's head – and similarly the doctor's incentive was to see his own handgun in his friend's tense grip. He'd better not mess this up.

Truth be told, he wasn't that comfortable with his body either. He was a soldier, not a dancer. He had seen and still saw every day many kinds of bodies, and his scrutiny had always been an anatomical, practical, professional one. Not with the women he dated, of course. He found them pretty and attractive. Nothing like Sherlock, though. It was funny how someone so awkward, with such long limbs and an unharmonious face, could have struck John as the very first body in which he saw true beauty.

One could presume that the one we love always looks the most beautiful person in the world to us – but John hadn't loved Sherlock the first time they had met. Sure, he had been quite dazzled, certainly stunned, and not just a little bit curious – he had felt drawn to the man from day one. But love was something else entirely. Something that had grown deeper and deeper inside him until it became a part of him. And he had found Sherlock beautiful long before he fell for him: since the moment he walked up to him to take his phone, in fact.

John couldn't tell _what_ exactly he thought was beautiful about the man in front of him, and maybe that mystery was part of the beauty, too. The prominent cheekbones could surely be a turn-on, but combined with the pale skin, the black hair and the unnaturally clear eyes, they were more ghastly than anything. Under every fresh face hides the grin of a skull, goes the saying. Well, it certainly didn't bother to hide in Sherlock's visage.

And even so, the man was beautiful. Was it because of the untamed curls, the gleam of intelligence and the depth of his eyes? His eyes. John plunged into them once again in the dimly-lit room. Sherlock's eyes were like the surface of a lake. Often just showing a reflection, as if they were mere mirrors. Analysing and sending back in details – magical mirrors then, perhaps, that could show us things we didn't even know about ourselves or the world around us. They could also turn to ice – the reflection itself would freeze, the water transform into a cold wall devoid of any ripple, of any emotion whatsoever.

But John had also seen them undulate and quiver and pulsate with excitement and joy and humour and _life_. Sure, that could be a little disturbing with a dead body in the room or assassins on your heels. Not to John, though. He couldn't believe people would even think Sherlock was a psychopath – and even less so a sociopath! God, it was just so obvious in those pupils when the detective was in high spirits or irritated or vexed or mocking or touched or bored! Even when he was acting he couldn't hide the depth in his eyes – a lake isn't a mirror, you can cloud it, trouble it, drink it, drown in it...

At this very moment John was drowning, and he came back to reality with a start. Right. The dance. This wasn't about wriggling his hips and looking ridiculous and lecherous enough to turn his friend on. This was about giving. Sherlock had felt despoiled of everything when dancing in the palm of Moriarty's hand, willingly, to save John's life. That dance had been an oversubtle form of rape. And so John couldn't just give his sexiest lap dance – not that he thought he could actually manage one that would prompt arousal and not laughter. It had to be more than that.

_All right. You think you've lost everything. You were stripped of each and every layer of yourself. Then I shall lay down each and every one of mine in front of you._

.

* * *

_oOo_

* * *

_Part 1/3_

to be continued

 

[ ](http://zoffoli.livejournal.com/)


	2. Part Two

At this very moment John was drowning, and he came back to reality with a start. Right. The dance. This wasn't about wriggling his hips and looking ridiculous and lecherous enough to turn his friend on. This was about giving. Sherlock had felt despoiled of everything when dancing in the palm of Moriarty's hand willingly to save John's life. That dance had been an oversubtle form of rape. And so he couldn't just give his sexiest lap dance – not that he thought he could actually manage one that would prompt arousal and not laughter. It had to be more than that.

__All right. You think you've lost everything. You were stripped of each and every layer of yourself..._ _ __Then I shall lay down each and every one of mine in front of you._ _

__.  
_ _

* * *

__oOo_ _

* * *

John closed his eyes and started swaying haltingly on his feet, as if softly waving in the wind or to the sound of a subdued melody. He brought his right hand slowly from his right hip to his left shoulder, caressing his torso through the jumper on the way, gently but firmly, as if cleaning a wound. He left his hand on his shoulder and let it tremble there quietly, keeping his eyes shut and feeling the tension and the pain creeping up his neck, pervading his face – the humiliation, too. Of coming back as a cripple. Of leaving his men behind. Of being shot when he was supposed to be the one healing the wounds.

His whole body twitched and he went along with it, continuing the involuntary reaction and bringing it to a full movement. He couldn't properly undulate because he wasn't supple enough, but he could transform the spasm into a vibration, let the quiver in his hand spread to his whole body and turn it into a dance move. He started tapping his left foot on the floor and shaking his head imperceptibly, beating time, as if to react to the overwhelming feelings of self-hatred and self-pity: a wish to stay alive and make something out of this wreck he had become.

 _Here I met you_ , murmured his every move.

Soon his right knee was accompanying the rhythm from his left foot, and along with the knee came the hip beating time with little upwards thrusts. His right hand stroked his throat and circled the nape of his neck. His body shuddered with a pang of shame at reacting to his own hand. He ran his fingers through his short hair and thought of Sherlock's curly locks and how different it would feel against his palm. His left arm crept up his thigh and snaked under his jumper alongside his belt until it reached his pelvis, which he began to buck as well, then crawled down his right leg, gripping the fabric of his jeans.

He heard Sherlock swallow but still didn't open his eyes, concentrating on his own body instead– the phantom pain in his leg, the burning ache in his shoulder from the scar and the injury he had suffered in the morning, his hips bucking, beating time along with his left foot still tapping on the floor, fingers running through his hair none too gently, gripping his scalp and jerking his head backward.

Sherlock's fascinated and utterly terrified eyes were fixated on his flatmate, colleague, friend, _John._ All the labels were disintegrating in the flow of the man's movements. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, but his grip was tight around the handgun.

He was holding it. That power of life and death the cabby had gloated at. John had given it to him.

Before long John felt that the thrusting of his hips and tapping of the foot weren't enough to beat time and express the intensity of the frustration and shame and hopelessness he had experienced upon his return from the war, and that still threatened to overthrow him sometimes (mostly at night – and how he hated being so vulnerable against the nightmares). His right shoulder began to jerk, and soon his whole torso, and the space felt too crowded so he started moving his feet as well, as if he were spreading his rage and fear and sheer energy around him. He realized he was almost jumping up and down to the beat now, marking time with each step, back and forth and to the side, feeling the wood of the parquet under his soles. A groan escaped his throat.

Both of his hands were in his hair at this point and he ran them down his neck and onto his chest and abdomen, lower and lower, getting desperate. He was perspiring under his jumper and felt the urge to get rid of it – he couldn't believe he was doing this in front of Sherlock of all people. But had there ever been anyone else?

The groan clearly turned into a moan as he ran his hands under his jumper over his skin, feeling the muscles and the scarred flesh, still dancing in a tortured and jerky way, throwing his head back or to the side, pushing his own arm away and letting it come back to his heart nonetheless, creeping under the jumper or gripping the fabric, and it was as if he were fighting with his own shadow or somebody's ghost, fighting and dancing all at once, pushing back and pulling closer, throwing away and holding fast, ripping and grabbing, and soon his hair and clothes were a complete mess, damp with perspiration.

With a jerk of the head he threw himself back and spun his body around in a vigorous circular movement, then froze on the spot, right leg slightly stretched to the side, arms wrapped around his torso. For about five seconds he remained still and listened to Sherlock's ragged breath filling the room, echoing his own raspy exhalations. Then he shifted his weight from the left to the right, rolled his hips once and resumed the rhythmic thrusts but not as violently as before – now they only seemed to accompany the undulating movements of the legs as he very slowly started to pull his jumper up his back, inch by inch.

Then he pulled it back down and smirked as a frustrated and poorly contained growl reached his ears. It shouldn't please him so much, really. After all, he was perfectly aware that Sherlock wasn't exactly going through a sweet torture – no, he was probably torn between shame and desire, and nowhere near prepared to deal with such ambivalent sentiments. _Oh well. Too bad._ John worked on the buckle of his belt and took it off at an agonizingly slow pace, finally holding one end in his left hand and letting the rest of it slide from his coccyx, tracing the buttock line of his jeans and hang between his fairly spread legs. Never stopping his bucking to keep the tempo and the vibration of his legs and torso, adding a movement of his shoulders going up one after the other, he shook his head rhythmically and threw his right arm in the air, then bent abruptly as if he were bowing.

Only then did he open his eyes and look straight into Sherlock's. Even from upside down John could see his partner trembling and squirming on the chair, looking both panicked and aroused. Those two states seemed closely linked in him. Sherlock was desperately holding onto the gun – the fact that his hand was shaking didn't lessen the death grip to the least: the weapon was just quivering along with the arm. His lips were bloodied and he was still biting them nervously, but when their eyes locked he let them go and tried to pull a blank face. John's gaze hardened and the anguish in Sherlock's came back full force. John smiled reassuringly. _It's o_ _k_ _ay_ _to be scared. It's fine, Sherlock, all fine. Just let go._

He took the other end of the belt and stretched his back nonchalantly, thus sliding it between his legs with just the right pressure until it was so taut he could feel his crotch throb against the leather. He resumed the thrusts he had stopped upon bending down, left hand still on his coccyx, right hand by the nape of his neck, and as he arched he wasn't sure from whose mouth the moan he heard had escaped.

Without warning, he let the belt go from his left hand and slapped it domineeringly on the floor, making Sherlock jump. John smirked. Just to check the reaction, he repeated the gesture, and was rewarded with a strangled wail his flatmate could not completely stifle. John grinned lovingly and envisioned how foolish he must look, showing that expression to the wall. He wanted to turn back to Sherlock. Sherlock, reacting to the belt... interesting. But John himself had his little secrets, and he was the one supposed to be exposed this time round. Almost in a predatory motion, he brought his hand back to his face and spread his arms, rubbing the nape of his neck with the belt, enjoying the friction of the leather on the sensitive skin. Gasping, he imagined Sherlock was the one slipping the belt around his neck, circling it twice, and tightening it. He heard the other man's breath catch in his throat and the sound the chair made on the wooden floor told him he must have jerked back unwittingly.

_Oh yes, you're not the only one to like the belt..._

The pressure was sickeningly addictive and the panic rising in his chest was such a thrill he just couldn't get enough – especially knowing Sherlock's transfixed eyes were riveted on him. _Oh God._ Soon John felt his throat burn and his lungs scream for air, but simultaneously the heat pooling between his legs was driving him to distraction. He let out a hiss and he couldn't believe how erotic it sounded even to his own ears.

When he noticed his arms were shaking and his legs about to give way, he loosened the belt and gasped for air, accompanying each pant with a thrust of the hips, moving his arms around his body and stepping rhythmically once he had caught his breath a bit. _Fear_ _. D_ _esire._ He was getting there. He ran his hands down to his waist and back up, pulling his jumper over his head, rolling his pelvis and letting his jeans fall lower on his hip bones, almost enough to show the parting of his cheeks. Sherlock closed his eyes. _No no no... I don't want to see this... I want to... to... I don't..._ He opened his eyes and swallowed, expression unreadable. _I want you._

John was holding the woollen clothing against his bare torso, and positioned himself exactly so that Sherlock would see his profile while he was writhing against his own jumper, head tilted back, rubbing his nipples and his throat around which the belt was still hanging loosely. He had resumed his frenzied movements, but now they were more passionate than desperate and as he realized this John let the exhilaration overwhelm him.

_You wouldn't believe how much you've given me, Sherlock._

He started dancing senselessly with his jumper as if it were an actual person, and he couldn't hold back a giggle – soon he was laughing with tears in his eyes and with a final spin he swung himself at Sherlock's feet, kneeling down in a very knight-like manner. He looked up to him and smiled.

Sherlock was stunned, his arms still shaking, his legs held impossibly tight in an attempt to hide the very obvious bulge in his pants. His breathing was irregular and a little quivery. John leant in closer until their foreheads almost touched and draped the jumper around his neck as if to protect him from the cold – not that the room lacked warmth, mind you.

He stood back up swiftly and only then could Sherlock see entirely his bare torso for the first time. Unlike Sherlock, John wasn't one to walk around the flat half-naked on a regular basis. There were many minor scars on his chest and abdomen, but of course the very obvious one was on his left shoulder. The detective's eyes grew wide as he noticed the bandage from this morning didn't even hide completely the original hypertrophic scar from the bullet wound. Visible round the edge of the gauze were angry red bubbles of scar tissue, rubbery growths standing proud of the surrounding skin. The wreckage of his mind palace still managed to throw the word 'keloids' across Sherlock's field of vision.

He swallowed but didn't avert his eyes – truth be told, he couldn't quite tear his gaze away from his friend. He wished he could, wished he could just shoot the wall and run away. Some insane part of his brain even suggested he kill himself on the spot – or rather, kill John, then himself. Erase it all. There would be no traces left of what they'd had.

But John was right. He had tried and failed to delete the traumatizing experience in the basement. If he had been despoiled of everything already, he had nothing left to lose. This time though, he felt responsible for John's state as well – something that had never happened before. Overdose wasn't comparable – he hadn't cared a bit about how it might have affected Mycroft or Lestrade. To be quite honest, he probably wouldn't care about how it could affect John if it were to happen in the future (not that he could picture any future at all in this instant).

But this was different. It hadn't been self-destruction – at least not one he had planned himself. And John had been involved from the start. Even shocked and traumatized, Sherlock wouldn't stop being rational. He liked putting his own life on the line to prove he was clever, that was the ultimate thrill, and he loved flirting with danger – and with danger alone. But he certainly didn't enjoy putting someone else's life in jeopardy and be proven a fool in the process. _Shame. Fear. Self-disgust._ He hated this. He could end it all, indeed. His grip tightened on the handle of the gun. Moriarty had already won after all.

 _"_ No he hasn't."

Sherlock looked up to his flatmate's face, dumbfounded. John's gaze was grave, his tone serious. He started walking around the chair as he spoke on, touching Sherlock's shoulder lightly, running a hand on his back and up to the nape of his neck, dragging his fingers through his curls – soft to the touch but that wouldn't be smoothed down. _Fascination. Lust. Avidity._

 _"_ Moriarty reminded you that you had a body and were neither asexual nor sociopathic enough to completely ignore it. He shocked you into self-consciousness and humiliated you by showing how good _he_ was at controlling his own body."

Sherlock stiffened on the chair but John went on, caressing the back of his left arm all the way down to his fingers.

 _"_ That just shows how geniuses can be complete idiots", he concluded.

He kept circling the chair in a slow pace, never averting his eyes from Sherlock, never breaking the contact between his own hand and his friend's body. He bent slightly behind him until his mouth was barely an inch away from his ear, and whispered:

 _"_ Do you know why he likes to 'watch you dance', Sherlock? It's because _he_ can't."

At this Sherlock shivered. He had never imagined John would be so... perceptive. Moving back round to the front, the doctor chuckled lightly, if a little bitterly.

 _"_ Right, I'm just common and stupid, but sometimes ordinary people manage to see things geniuses don't because they're so obvious."

He closed his eyes and resumed swaying, feeling the beat again and entering the trance. John Watson did not think he could be sensual. Give pleasure, certainly, but not with sight. He didn't consider himself ugly or anything. Just short, with a nose too long, hair of a nondescript colour. _Nondescript_. Yes, that was him. But crippled and twisted, too. Not normal enough to be part of the common people, not special enough to be part of the exceptional ones. He remembered Moriarty's words to Sherlock : _'You're nothing, love.'_ Oh, but that was so wrong. For both of them. He let the bitterness and sheer hurt wash over him and transform to desire and devotion, crossing his arms down on his hips, rocking in abandon to the tempo, throwing his head to the side voluptuously. _Dancing the ache._

 _"_ The question is, Sherlock: why are you so scared of involving your body in this ability you have to 'dance'?"

He extended his left arm and flinched from the pain of the stretching stitches, then stroked his outstretched skin with the tip of his fingers, enjoying the tickling touch, painfully wishing it were Sherlock's.

 _"_ Is it because you fear it might distract you, like it did with Irene Adler?"

Swaying as if he were dancing a slow with a lover, John moved his hands down and across his torso.

 _"_ It's true your attraction to her confused your brilliant mind. But don't you think it is precisely because it _confused_ you that you almost messed up?"

He ran his fingers through his hair, then down his neck, his chest, his hips, around his lower back, shivering under a phantom lover's hands.

 _"_ You're not asexual, Sherlock. Your reaction to Adler was telling enough. But if it hadn't been so intimidating and frightening to you, it wouldn't have obscured your mental capacities."

John kept his hands on his body, playing with his loose jeans, letting his fingers ride up his sides and back towards the nape of his neck. This was one of his most sensitive areas, probably because of what a touch there symbolized – vulnerability, abandon, _danger_.

 _"_ An increased heart rate and dilated pupils do not necessarily short-circuit one's ability to think. They can, but usually only for beginners."

At this he opened his eyes and smirked slightly as the dawning expression on Sherlock's face was replaced by an imperceptible offended frown. John let his head fall forward gently and rolled it back up in a slow motion, twisting his body accordingly. His hands sneaked back up along his torso to his throat and he buckled the belt around his neck loosely, all the while looking Sherlock in the eye.

 _"_ It's true dance and sex are both about abandoning your restraints – but it can also be mastered and skilfully controlled. In fact, both are all about the right proportion of passion and skill."

He walked up to Sherlock and bent until their noses were almost touching, then pulled back – and the detective noticed he had just come to retrieve his cane lying on the floor by the chair.

 _"_ It doesn't have to be common and automatic and _boring,_ because there are no rules. There may be codified steps or positions, but you can just make it all up. Just like man cannot ignore the laws of nature but can work with them and eventually master those forces with reasoning, creativity and techniques, you can learn to work with your body and turn it into an asset, not a weakness..."

John had resumed rolling his hips and then moved them from side to side, holding the cane horizontally in front of him, arms stretched. He knew that Sherlock wasn't confident about this at all, because he saw 'sentiments' as something messy and risky, always leading to much trouble (such as murder, but that could be fun – usually, it was just both painful and boring, the worst combination ever). Hence the running away behind the handy mask of 'sociopath' and psychopath and so on. John shook his head imperceptibly and put his hands up in the air, crossing his wrists, all the while holding on to the cane, then spun it above his head.

 _"_ Moriarty was smart enough to notice that you weren't asexual or sociopathic, just incredibly clever _and_ remarkably inhibited when it comes to your body."

He let the cane slide alongside his cheek, throat and upper torso and arched his back to the touch, moving his hips in soft circular motions that soon degenerated in a desperate twist and stopped altogether. _Yes,_ he thought loathingly, _smart and devious enough to deduce the perfect torture accordingly and to put it into practice._ John's body was burning. He'd sell his soul to the devil for Sherlock, and yet he could do nothing but watch with horror (and lust) as he was taken apart. _L_ _ust_. Talk about ambivalent sentiments. He was scared to death that this wouldn't work, that Sherlock would still leave and end his life in some sickly elaborate way. Yet he craved his touch his lips the feel of his skin against his own... Face filled with pain and yearning, he pulled the cane slightly down his bare chest, the bottom of it just above his nipple, and ran his hands over the stick as if it were the last remains of a deceased lover. He leant his chin against it and almost winced at the touch but still pressed it closer and closer, pulling it back down, emitting a soft moan when it grazed his nipple and rubbed on his bandaged cut, pain and pleasure interwoven. A broken chuckle escaped his lips.

 _"_ Most people aren't comfortable with their bodies, you know."

 _Even if_ _not_ _all of them are_ _crippled, and some_ _are_ _even gorgeous_ _..._ He walked backwards, spinning his cane in his right hand, letting himself fall back on the armchair, and spread his legs with the cane, running the stick up and down his inner thighs, as if tracing them with a brush. _You deserve much better than me. But if it's me you want, I will give you everything I can. You gave me back my leg and took the tremor off my hand... You bestowed the spark of life on my broken body once more._ He brought the cane back abruptly right in front of his crotch, as if he were pinning something firmly onto the ground, and stared at Sherlock with a burning gaze.

 _"_ But even if you feel uncomfortable, it's your body. Just like your mind, it is what makes you _you_. It has history. It gives you life. And whether it's dancing or shivering to a touch or unwillingly ejaculating, there is nothing to be ashamed of."

He leant back into the armchair, still holding the cane straight, and started bucking his hips and rubbing softly against the back of the seat. He noticed Sherlock's grip on the gun tighten, and suddenly felt very tired. But that was the whole point, wasn't it? Rip all of his layers away and give to Sherlock what the man had given away himself in order to save his life.

As he felt a lump growing in his throat, John focused on the imaginary beat and kept his hips moving and his upper body writhing in the armchair rhythmically. Shivering, he held the cane in front of him and ran his right hand over his bare torso all the way up to his injured and scarred shoulder. _You gave me so much, you must not feel guilty for anything that happens to me because I'm by your side. I'd be dead if I were anywhere els_ _e._ He removed the bandage protecting the stitches slowly, back arched, and eventually let it fall on his left thigh. He looked up at his partner and felt a chill run down his spine. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on his shoulder, with an expression of horror and... disgust. John ignored the twinge of pain this caused him and concentrated on his movements.

That's when he noticed the fingers tapping on Sherlock's left knee. He had been so focused on the right hand holding the gun that he couldn't tell when his friend had started this, but he knew right away that they were notes. The twitch was the same as when Sherlock was playing the violin. Was he doing this intentionally? John couldn't tell. But he had to find out which musical score was playing in his flatmate's head in order to match it with his dance – to show him that he too could understand him and _know_ him even if he wasn't as clever as Jim Moriarty. He could definitely do this. Sherlock's expression always varied with the piece he was playing, especially in the way his mouth curved. The tension in his arm was always different too. John kept moving but paid particular attention as he sat back up, shaking his shoulders, running his right hand up and down his chest, on the nape of his neck and in his hair.

Sherlock's mouth twitched and then John knew. That particular twitch could only mean one thing: _Bach violin sonata No1, presto_. He was jubilant. With that simple twitch he knew exactly where Sherlock was standing in the music and what came next.

He threw himself back up on his legs unexpectedly and spun around, rolling his head and his hips in a coordinated motion. He noticed he was trembling, because he was terrified of not being enough to bring Sherlock back on track, of becoming the cripple who had been the downfall of the most brilliant man he'd ever met. He was disgusted with himself.

Nonetheless, he played the music in his mind as well, matching perfectly the notes Sherlock was hearing at the moment. Each jerk of the hips, the shoulders, the knee, every motion of the head or legs, every movement of the arm still holding the cane, matched the tapping of Sherlock's fingers. John knew this piece by heart. Sherlock had played the sonata while being "heart-broken" after Irene Adler's presumed death, but always skipped the _presto_. One day, John had asked him why. Sherlock had answered that it reminded him too much of him. John had been flabbergasted. He had listened to it on the internet, and had wondered what could possibly sound like him in there.

But then Sherlock had played it for him. The day he learned Adler wasn't dead, and after having heard her conversation with John, he had played the piece as his friend entered the flat. And John had understood then what he had meant: the way _he_ played it, frenetic but firm, passionate and still resolute... That day John had felt much more exposed than when Sherlock had told him all about his sister's marriage. Much happier, too.

After that day, Sherlock had played the piece numerous times, and always John made sure he could observe him while he was holding the violin and running his slender fingers on the strings, successfully ignoring how much he wished he could be a violin. Now, as he was literally _dancing_ the music, putting it into movements, he became aware how it had infected him. And also what that said about his feelings for his flatmate.

The music was accelerating and his movements grew brisker and more desperate, as if he were all at once fighting and begging for more. He couldn't stop the trembling now, or the lump that was almost choking him, and he prayed to a God he had never believed in that this would work, that Sherlock wouldn't use the gun, because then if he hadn't shot _him_ that would be all John would have left to do. He gripped his shoulder rashly, tried to stifle a cry of pain, and all of a sudden he heard the chair banging onto the floor and felt cold hands and silk wrap around him, pushing his own fist away from the stitches and the wound he had caused to bleed. He couldn't prevent the tears running down his cheeks but he kept moving, if more softly, until the end of the piece, and Sherlock's fingers on his abdomen accompanied him tentatively.

John realized this meant that he had dropped the gun. He leant into the embrace and let out a sigh of relief and exhaustion. But soon the piece was going to end. He had to do something. Rolling his hips softly, he encouraged Sherlock to follow the move and draw small circles with him. He felt the detective stiffen at first, about to draw back, but he entwined his fingers with his and held on to him with a silent plea. The _presto_ ended. Sherlock tried to step back so John wouldn't feel his erection pulsing, but the doctor leant back and tilted his head to rest on his friend's shoulder.

_It's fine. It's all fine._

He started tapping his fingers against the back of Sherlock's hand, softly.

There was another significant piece, one he particularly liked – although his flatmate very rarely played it, as it was supposed to be for two violins. John had been very surprised and very pleased to hear him play it the first time, because it was his favourite classical piece – the only one he truly knew before meeting Sherlock. It was quite famous. His mother had read in some magazine that classical music enhanced the development of a child, and so she had bought that "Best of" mix, with pieces that had nothing to do with each other all on the same CD. Needless to say, John highly doubted it had made them smarter and more well-behaved children. It didn't give them a passion for classical music either. But there was that one piece – just one – that John really liked. Bach's _Double violin concerto in D minor_. He had known the piece as far back as he could remember knowing anything, and had listened to it countless times. Not since Afghanistan, though.

Hence his surprise and emotion when he had heard Sherlock play it in the middle of the night out of the blue, waking him up from a nightmare. At first he had thought he was still dreaming. Then he had remembered he was living with a madman who played the violin at three in the morning on a regular basis. And for once, he had been terribly grateful to him for disrupting his hellish sleep. Since then, he had taken up the habit of replaying the piece mentally each time he woke up from a nightmare. It soothed him and lulled him back to sleep. He rarely got to the 3rd movement, and even when he did, the frenzied tempo still appeased him, because it was so familiar, like an old friend knocking on your door, and ever since Sherlock had played it, John could almost say it felt like home. A home he hadn't had since his childhood.

Now tapping his fingers on Sherlock's soft skin, John made it a confession, and put all his heart into the musical touch, letting his body sway gently to the melody. His heart clenched with an indescribable emotion when he felt Sherlock's other hand, the one on his shoulder protecting what remained of the stitches, tap gently on his scar, caressing the keloids as if they weren't disgusting clusters, thick and puckered, spreading beyond the edges of the wound and alongside the collagene bonds from the adhesions, sending shivers all over John's body – this was where his skin was most sensitive. Sherlock was playing the second violin's part, one that John could never remember, despite his most intimate knowledge of the piece. John smiled. _God, you really are brilliant._

 _"_ No, you are, John."

The whisper and the warmth of the tickling breath on his ear almost made him freeze, but he didn't want this to stop – ever, if he had to be honest – and so he remained focused on the music. The one they were playing, together.

_See? Isn't this so much better than just a simple beat? You still have your music, Sherlock. It's yours. All yours. You are creating this._

But Sherlock was trembling again, as if the contact between their two bodies was just too much.

 _"_ John."

 _"_ Um?"

 _"_ I'm afraid. My body is betraying me."

 _"_ It's not betraying you, Sherlock."

 _"_ But it is. I've always been able to keep my distance."

 _"_ But you don't need to."

 _"_ I do. Otherwise I..."

 _"_ You doubt."

Sherlock ran his fingers furiously over John's abdomen, tracing each note the violin was playing in his mind, and the doctor was struggling to keep up with his own part – but he knew this was important. He truly wanted to show Sherlock they could be on the same wavelength, even if he wasn't a genius madman.

 _"_ Yes", came the whispered admission.

 _"_ In the end though, you figured it out. The drug in the fog."

 _"_ But there's no such drug here..."

 _"_ You can still figure it out."

 _"_ No..."

 _"_ Why?"

 _"_ I'm not you... I'm not him..."

John chuckled.

 _"_ And thank God for that! Seriously, Sherlock. What are you on about?"

 _"_ Neither a heart nor a brain. I'm nothing."

 _"_ Or you're both."

With a roll of the hips and a tilt of his head John spun around in the detective's arms, sneaking a hand around his lower back and tapping his fingers on his torso through the thin fabric of his shirt. The first movement was going to end soon. John looked his friend in the eye with determination.

 _"_ Maybe you're everything, Sherlock."

.

* * *

_oOo_

* * *

_Part 2/3_

to be continued


	3. Part Three

"I'm not you... I'm not him..."

John chuckled.

"And thank God for that! Seriously, Sherlock. What are you on about?"

"Neither a heart nor a brain. I'm nothing."

"Or you're both."

With a roll of the hips and a tilt of his head John spun around in the detective's arms, sneaking an arm around his lower back and tapping his fingers on his torso through the thin fabric of his shirt. The first movement was going to end soon. John looked his friend in the eye with determination.

"Maybe you're everything, Sherlock."

.

* * *

_oOo_

* * *

The taller man gulped.

 _"_ Is that a confession?" he managed eventually, his voice a little shaky.

John smirked, and slowly pushed him back towards the chair, dancing and keeping their bodies just inches apart.

 _"_ Don't flatter yourself."

He pushed the detective back onto the chair and with a wiggling motion of the hip, straddled him. Sherlock bit back a moan and glowered. John grinned. Lightly he stroked his chest and played with a nipple tentatively, waving his torso. Sherlock sent him an even darker look, but John paid it no heed and kept playing the __vivace__ on his partner's nape.

 _"_ Dilated pupils... accelerated heart beat..."

 _"_ Could be fear."

 _"_ Could be. Are you scared?"

 _"_ Yes."

John was so surprised by the admission that he almost forgot about the __largo ma no tanto__ that was just starting. Thankfully, Sherlock's fingers were still tapping the notes on John's skin (quite distractingly, in fact) and so the violin kept playing in his mind.

 _"_ Well, at least now you know," he commented breathlessly.

Sherlock snorted at the reference to his brother.

 _"_ Although, you could have already guessed, what with your reaction to Irene Adler..."

Sherlock groaned. He let his head rest on his friend's shoulder, sliding his hand back on his torso and tapping his fingers there, pushing him back softly. Rejecting him.

 _"_ John... please..."

John swallowed. He felt as cold as if the man had just asked him to kill him – which was basically what he was asking for, in fact. _Please just let go_.

 _"_ Sorry, that's not the kind of begging I enjoy hearing..."

 _"_ And I don't beg _,"_ Sherlock replied somewhat stubbornly - yet his tone was jaded. John shivered.

 _"_ Sherlock, listen to me. So what if Moriarty knows you have a mind palace? Obviously he would. And what if he can enter it? You're still the master of the ship. He can look around all he wants, it doesn't mean he won't get lost or that you cannot completely change the way things appear, juggle with images and memories and recreate time and space to your fancy – it's yours, and you've got nothing to hide or to be ashamed of. You're twisted and gorgeous and bloody brilliant – if your mind palace had just been a simple map inside your head, Moriarty may have had complete control over it, provided he knew this unchanging map. But it isn't. It's always moving, evolving, it's _alive_ and he cannot kill it. He didn't ruin it, Sherlock. You did. He just talked and you ran amok and spread havoc."

John leant in, caressing Sherlock's scalp and playing with his locks, waving his torso and swaying softly. Rocking both of their bodies, he pulled his friend gently into the dance with him. His right hand's fingers hadn't left the nape of his neck. Sherlock's shaking wasn't getting any better, but it didn't impair his playing of the second violin on John's torso – his quivering hand was, in truth, all the more enticing.

 _"_ Cheating..."

 _"_ Um?"

 _"_ You're cheating... Said we didn't have to talk..."

 _"_ But you always do the talking, don't you? Even when I'm not around. So I thought it should be my turn..."

 _"_ John, if I don't notice when you're not in the room..."

He was interrupted by John bucking his pelvis against his crotch, rubbing the stretched fabric of their trousers, and bit his lips to stifle a moan. John's fingers were dancing on his back, and Sherlock felt as if he were engraving the __largo__ into his very soul – whatever such a lousy concept meant.

 _"_ I know. It's because you've integrated my presence to such an extent that I'm part of your mind now. Bouncing back ideas. Not luminous, but 'unbeatable as a conductor of light'."

 _"_ There's nothing to bounce back any more."

 _"_ Then let's see what I can stimulate in you, shall we?"

John stood back up abruptly and danced the __largo__ without touching the detective – a movement for each note, slow and sensual, and he almost laughed, wondering how many people would use Bach to strip tease. Literally living the music through motions, he pushed his trousers down unhurriedly, then stepped out of them. Sherlock closed his eyes.

 _"_ John. Please."

 _"_ You've begged me twice tonight."

 _"_ I have said please to you before."

 _"_ Yes. The first time was to have a woman's smartphone, the other your cigarettes."

He started circling Sherlock's chair, keeping his right hand on his shoulder, nape or throat, tapping or stroking gently, depending on the notes. He moved back round to the front and lifted Sherlock's chin, playing the music on his throat and cheek, plunging into those incredibly blue eyes, now troubled and darkened with fear, desire and uncertainty. _Doubt_. His face was no longer blank. It was the face John had seen at the pool when Sherlock had thought him to be Moriarty, that of a little, lost child. It was the face he had seen in that lab at Bart's on the day they met, when his first impression was that Sherlock was a raving mad twelve year old, except he didn't look so demented anymore, just scared. It wasn't exactly the face he had witnessed in Baskerville, because panic now seemed to be overridden by pain.

Overwhelmed, John leant in once more, straddling one of Sherlock's thighs, and rested his forehead on Sherlock's, closing his eyes, still rolling his hips in a slow motion and swaying his torso. Sherlock's right hand reached urgently, almost desperately, and he ran his fingers over John's chest again with a passion the doctor had only seen him express on his violin.

John started to grind his body against the other man deliberately – rhythmically in fact, and as this was a __largo__ _..._ Never had he felt so exposed. He was only in underpants while Sherlock was still fully dressed, and he was rubbing himself against him. The mental image sent shivers down his spine and made his cheeks burn.

He suddenly felt terribly self-conscious, and wondered how in the world the detective managed to get an erection from seeing a cripple strip and dance in such an intimate manner. His objective had been to bare himself completely, to rip his own layers apart so Sherlock wouldn't feel so ashamed anymore. Of course, John wanted to show him that he still owned everything he was and always possessed, and maybe even more: but he also knew, deep down, that he was acting as a foil.

As if reading his thoughts (and maybe he was), Sherlock's fingers on John's chest ran all the way up to his scar and the bleeding cut under the stitches, caressing them so lightly at first it felt like a feather, then adding more pressure, mixing pain and pleasure. John pondered whether a violin would have felt so utterly denuded and vulnerable, had it possessed a nervous system. He had the confusing impression of being a mere instrument under Sherlock's touch, and wondered absent-mindedly if that was because he knew that his partner, unlike all the women who had touched his scar (and many had, in fact, avoided it) would remember every cluster of scar tissue and collagen fibre, every unintended shiver, jerk and moan that he couldn't control.

Something seemed to snap in Sherlock and he leant in, pressed his head to John's chest and raised it until his lips were on the scar, kissing it gently. John gasped and cried out in surprise, clutching his hand in his friend's hair, trying to focus on his fingers playing the _largo_ on the nape of his neck and _not_ on his fleshy lips, tinged with blood red. Sherlock licked the flesh experimentally, eliciting another gasp from John, mouth fitting tightly around each and every inch of the scar as if taking a cast. Then he nibbled tentatively, exploring. He flicked his tongue and ran it over the stitches, swabbing the cut lightly with his full lips, darting his tongue again and reaching into the wound. John arched his back and wailed. Sherlock was now _suckling_ the gash all the way down to the scar, pumping the blood out, athirst, igniting fire in the doctor's chest.

John groaned and tried to keep up the rolling of his hips and the swaying of his body, but he was now trembling as well, and he almost chuckled thinking what a pathetic mess of quivering, glistening and burning hot limbs they must have looked like, rejecting and clinging onto the other simultaneously, refusing to completely accept this and still begging for more.

But John couldn't let himself lose control just yet. There was something left to be done.

 _"_ Your mind... isn't broken at all... it isn't impaired by anything your body does or feels..."

Sherlock moaned into his scar as John thrust his pelvis and gyrated his hips to the music resonating in their minds, playing it down the detective's spine through the silky fabric. He shook his head, refusing to dwell on the distinct feeling of nakedness and the odd impression of being an offered meal.

But as he was feeling Sherlock's luscious lips and sophisticated tongue ravaging his flesh, John knew his flatmate was coming back to him. Behind the touch and the literal _devouring_ , he could already recognize the fascinating, arrogant, imperious and pompous man he had been drawn to at first sight – not safe (and everyone knows how John feels about that). Completely mad, still strangely likeable. _Charming._ Something fluttered in his stomach and the heat pooling between his legs increased. This was mad and confusing and brilliant. This was so utterly _Sherlock_. But John still had to show tried to catch his breath.

 _"_ Tell me... what that first text you sent from my phone was all about. The brother being the... murderer if he had a green... ladder."

John ran his free hand, the one not playing the __largo__ _,_ on Sherlock's lower back, marvelling at the seraphic glow of his skin. The detective's body tensed slightly and he squirmed a little under the touch before adjusting to it and accepting to be gentled. His mouth left John's scar with a sigh. John danced and his swaying made their lower bodies brush, eliciting a gasp from Sherlock who sputtered precipitately:

 _"_ Jack Downing was to inherit his father's house as he was the eldest and his wife Jane was convinced that his brother Keith had murdered him to get the inheritance but he had a cast iron alibi."

John licked his earlobe appreciatively and whispered in an amused and almost sultry voice:

 _"_ Guess that's why you took the case."

Sherlock couldn't help but snuggle closer, squeezing his friend's waist daintily with his left hand. He couldn't identify this odd feeling entwined with the fear and the shame. _Longing_.

 _"_ Jane and her husband believed in the nonsense one may call superstition and of course Keith Downing knew that as well he was also aware that his brother didn't hold his alcohol so he offered him whisky and put a green ladder on the path between the house and the pond so stupid Jack would walk right into the pond to avoid walking under the ladder helped on by his drunkenness and the loose gravel of the path," he uttered in one breath, quivering from the fizzy sensation of John's tongue darting over his ear.

But John didn't let him catch his breath. He made a mental note while he sneakily slipped his left hand back to Sherlock's chest, fondling it in an electrifying skimming. Explanations, check. Shared memories, now. _Cases._

"How did you know Sally Barnicot's best friend Pietro Venucci had been murdered by his boyfriend Beppo like she claimed, and that it wasn't just her making it all up as she had obviously been in love with Pietro?"

"Because of the burglaries..."

Sherlock's breath caught as John twiddled his right nipple in a way that was both tender and titillating. Every touch was burning him and they were swaying like flames to the music. They were dancing on tenterhooks.

"What did that have to do with it?"

The detective tried to sound indignant.

"Everything, John, everything! That's... elementary."

"Oh?" John smiled, enjoying how his partner's dulcet body was falling into raptures in his arms.

Sherlock's breathing was becoming erratic. John smoothly caressing his shoulder and brushing his lips on his temple didn't help either. He gulped as a thumb teased the soft skin beneath his ear, playing with the curls – a sweet torment. He spoke hastily.

"The penknife with which Beppo had stabbed Pietro to death was hidden in one of the busts the art student had sculpted and he was stupid enough to try and retrieve it instead of just leaving it there in the house of some blessedly ignorant people..."

John chuckled and his hand playing the __largo__ worked its way down Sherlock's torso gently...

"Yes, yes, I know, _you_ wouldn't have been caught. You babbled on and on about it."

… then reached his waist and caressed the angular hip as carefully as if it were porcelain, yet pressing the soft flesh tantalizingly. Sherlock's pout shattered and his head strained back, his tendons protruding and his pulse hammering. A word was hovering on his lips, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"And you left me there while I was talking," he managed to utter.

"Indeed. With a turkey, though."

Sherlock frowned at him. John chuckled and felt the urge to kiss him, but held himself back – this wasn't about himself, but about getting Sherlock back together. The detective had enough trouble dealing with his body without adding _sentiments_ into the mix. John tried to ignore the fact that his touches and movements and most of all this _largo_ he was now playing on Sherlock's quivering inner thigh spoke volumes.

"Which Kratide did Chris Melas see first?"

Sherlock was slowly melting under John's mollifying caresses. As the hand not playing the music came to rest on his abdomen under his shirt, skin to skin, he was reminded of Moriarty and shivered.

"Sophy, the Wolflady. Comic books aren't comics, they're... graphic novels."

John swayed and gently rocked the body fluttering in his arms. The _largo_ was going to end soon. Those last notes, he wanted to carve them onto the pale skin, deeper into the flesh, even further down Sherlock's mind – a memory he'd never be able to delete, even if he deleted everything else about John. Just those notes... _Moriarty messed around with your mind. Everything he said was true, but there's nothing to be ashamed of. Look at you._ He slowly pulled the sleuth's shirt up his torso.

"And how did we manage to bring Kratide to its demise in one day?"

 _Just breathe with me._ He nuzzled into his friend's neck and wriggled his hips so their abdomens would be touching, only separated by his hand still lying on Sherlock's stomach. His right hand crept back up, still playing the concerto, until it reached his nape, tickling soothingly. Unsettling yet liberating: John's touch was entrancingly paradoxical, thought Sherlock in a daze.

"We dressed as ninjas and reproduced the scene of Latimer defeating the two masked terrorists on Shaftesbury Avenue..."

Sherlock, brilliant Sherlock, was matching John's breathing. He arched his back as John nuzzled against him and brought his right hand over the one that was still playing on the sensitive skin of his nape. His thighs were trembling under the ex-soldier's firm quadriceps. That Word he couldn't formulate was still tingling the tip of his tongue. John stroked his belly gingerly.

 _"_ What kind of snake killed Julia Stoner?"

Sherlock was puffing airily against the greyish locks of hair. He was scared of his own reactions and terribly confused – but curious, too. Everything John was doing was spurring him to let go and inspired such thrill and energy and sheer exhilaration that he felt impelled to surrender: he was hankering for the touch. His answer came in a sigh.

 _"_ It wasn't a snake."

 _"_ Really? What was it, then?"

The doctor in John was amazed at the exquisiteness of the limbs he was palpating, tracing each muscle voluptuously through the thin layer of fabric. Gently swaying, he slipped his hand from the tense and palpitating belly down the iliac spine to the psoas muscle. Sherlock moaned, and John felt a surge of power – he could feel precisely each and every muscle quivering under his touch through the fabric, and it was quite overwhelming to know his fingers held the power to spark life into the vestal flesh. His hand crept down the pectinate muscle, inspecting tauntingly, then slid down the sartorius muscle, sensing and testing until Sherlock gasped. Their right hand fingers were half entwined, playing the last notes of the __largo__ _._

 _"_ It was... bubble bath... "

The doctor's hand palmed the gracilis muscle and squeezed his way up the adductor longus, earning a groan all the more arousing as John knew it was genuine and raw. _Just perfect to close the largo_ , he thought. But Sherlock's answer to his question wasn't satisfying, so he pressed on teasingly.

 _"_ Um?"

He toyed a moment with the longus before moving on to the brevis and pinching it lightly. Sherlock clutched onto his shoulder blades and muffled a cry by nuzzling against his chest. The word had escaped his lips, but he had crushed them soon enough on John's shoulder to stifle the utterance. He answered breathlessly:

 _"_ Her step-father Roylott was a developer in expensive cosmetics and poisoned her - he was trying to poison her sister too but the idiot hung himself before we could find out why."

John chuckled softly and made the detective's skin tickle.

 _"_ That really frustrated you, didn't it?"

 _"_ Of course it... ah!" John looked up innocently, all the while cupping the gluteal muscle and kneading it none too gently. Pressing into the flesh, he smiled at how the buttocks responded under his touch, encouraging the muscles to release and open.

 _"_ But why did Julia have two tiny puncture marks in her leg?"

 _"_ In the right ankle John... Roylott had put the marks there to deflect suspicion onto one of the snakes his step-daughter's fiancé kept... as pets..."

John slid off his partner's thighs abruptly and stood up, noticing the way Sherlock bit his lower lip to suppress a growl of protest. Hiding his smirk, he started circling the chair once more, pacing in a rather predatory manner, running galvanizing fingers up Sherlock's arm and on his upper back. Starting the __allegro__ _._

 _"_ Well, you keep dead body parts."

 _"_ They're not pets, John," mumbled Sherlock, moving his hand up to the doctor's wrist and playing the notes there frenetically, sending shivers through his body.

 _"_ Really? That's true, I can't quite picture you with pets anyway."

The last movement of the concerto was rather frenzied: this was going to be tricky, thought John.

His own arousal wasn't helping either, and he had to stay focused on the task at hand.

"I have you," murmured Sherlock with a strain in his deep baritone voice.

"Not sure how I'm supposed to take that," replied John as his body knew very well how to take it.

He bucked his hips once onto the back of the chair, making Sherlock gasp, and with his left hand worked on and around the shoulder, easing the muscles outwards from the spine, starting lightly, then moving in deeper, penetrating the flesh through the soft fabric, feeling the tension. His right hand was all the while playing the _allegro_ tantalizingly on his friend's throat.

 _"_ Compliment?" squeaked Sherlock, arching his back and trying to grip John's waist with his free hand.

"Oh is it, now?" John retorted idly, blowing his warm breath across the white skin of his friend's neck, sneaking a lightning hand to his torso and squeezing a nipple.

 _"_ Ah!"

 _"_ Why did William Howells kill Matthew Michael?"

God, John was starting to get quite dizzy himself – hence his standing up to reduce the contact. He wondered briefly how Sherlock could handle this, when he had been so quick to climax in the basement – and it wasn't that he lacked excitation, that much was clear from the hardness in his trousers.

John smiled as he pressed himself to the chair and to the warm, trembling back, grinding so Sherlock would sense the move, inviting him to sway along, and soon they were rippling together, their bodies pressed flushed against the back of the chair, undulating and writhing to the frenzied tempo. Sherlock was truly brilliant. He could manage this conversation and the dancing and the touching and the music.

"Technically, it wasn't murder – William was only a killer in the play under the role of Albert Chaplette – Albert killed his mother but wasn't even supposed to kill Sidney Paget according to the script, and even less kill the actual actor on stage, but..."

John interrupted him by licking down the side of his earlobe, eliciting a whimper from the already undone detective.

"Yes?" he insisted with a teasing, husky voice.

"Matthew playing Sidney replaced the rubber aluminium crutch with a real aluminium crutch and.. ah!" John smiled. _Note to self: incredibly sensitive nipples. Efficient in shutting him up._

"But why would he do that?" He slid his hand lower and played with the flesh on the hip and belly in a fondling motion, enjoying the palpitation against his palm.

"Couldn't... couldn't stand William any more, because he was a drunk always fooling around and..."

"How could such a person be part of the cast?"

The intensity of the dance and of the touches was increasing drastically and Sherlock was now thrashing impetuously, enraptured. _Bewitching_ , thought John.

"The director, Deborah Challis, was in love with him... wouldn't fire him, either..."

Breathless, Sherlock reached feverishly towards the hand on his abdomen, grabbing it with fervour and clutching it fast for a second, before John gently extricated himself.

"And why didn't Matthew think that he would get killed?" John went on, slowly coming back up to the front, brushing along the quivering arm, playing all the way down to the porcelain skin of the wrist, while his left hand crept back up Sherlock's spine and tugged at the sensitive hair on his nape.

"B... because William wasn't supposed to hit him on the ah!.. head..."

Sherlock's playing was becoming more frantic and he was hastening the initial rhythm, making John's head swirl – the _allegro_ was the part of the concerto John was less familiar with, because he usually fell back to sleep before getting there when he was playing it on his mattress after a nightmare, and also because the score was so much more complicated and frenzied than the other two movements. Swaying more ardently and wriggling his hips wantonly, he tried to keep up the pace. His best option was still to tease the tumultuous musician, though.

"Good... now, why did you leave me that message rather than call Lestrade directly?" he asked, grinning in amusement, bending down and running his right hand on Sherlock's torso, tracing the notes, pressing, tickling, stroking, brushing, sometimes almost grazing, and staring right into the over-dilated pupils.

But to his surprise, the detective smirked insolently, his eyes burning.

"Why did you keep the message on your phone and post it word for word on your blog?' he retorted hoarsely.

 _Oh God_. _Not good._ John felt his breath catch in his throat and blushed furiously. A confident Sherlock was ridiculously alluring, but a panting, undone, trembling _and_ confident one was just entrancing. The man was still hovering in fear, but also shivering with pleasure, and John knew both were in fact closely linked. Sherlock's heart was throbbing with panic and desire, while the cheekiness of his smile and elaborate playfulness of his tone barely hid the lingering insecurity in his cloudy eyes. How delectably paradoxical, thought John, unaware that his friend thought the same of his touch.

"John?"

"Um?"

"You're skipping notes."

Dazed, John blinked twice before he caught on. But Sherlock didn't give him time to splutter anything, and leant forward, circling his waist successfully this time, pulling him closer as John stared, dumbfounded. Almost timidly, Sherlock ran his hands up his spine, and John realized in amazement that he was playing _both_ violins' parts, right hand for the first soloist, left for the second. Sherlock swallowed embarrassedly and directed his gaze down.

"I... I can take care of the music if you want."

John felt his chest overflow with warmth, and forgetting all about the fact that a strip dance was supposed to keep skin to skin contact to a minimum, he hugged his friend tightly, nuzzling against his neck to hide the tears of exhaustion and relief, murmuring:

"Oh, God yes."

He kept swaying his torso in a circular motion, taking Sherlock along in the movement, rocking his pelvis rhythmically into the maddening touch inflaming his back.

Finally, he was back. Sherlock, completely and utterly mad Sherlock. Such a strange child. Staggeringly beautiful. John couldn't believe he had put him in the same bag as Moriarty, as a maniac and a psychopath, even for a second. The man fluttering in his arms still looked like a twelve year old, very public school, strange and fascinating. But he was so much more than a brilliant brain. John was almost grateful to Moriarty for shocking them into the realization of what they truly desired. Almost. He still couldn't forgive the man for hurting Sherlock, and especially not for daring to _touch_ him.

 _"_ When those CIA agents came into the Woman's flat, you wished you could have seen me on my knees, didn't you?"

John rolled his eyes and decided to do something with this inviting, long and tense back that was exposed before him.

 _"_ You were the one asking for it..."

 _"_ I never said anything about knees, I said..."

 _"_ 'Do you want me on the floor too?' Oh, so you were thinking of some other position on the floor?"

 _"_ I don't know, were you?"

 _Always want to have the last word, uh?_ thought John as he circled the sacrum with a soothing fondle, massaging the buttocks and middle back, spreading outwards from the spine. His movements were becoming more frantic by the second, more desperate than gentle, too. Sherlock growled and was torn between arching his back and snuggling closer. Instead, he responded by darting his tongue onto John's shoulder, licking the scar and wound, remembering that his previous reaction to it had been more than satisfying. He found he loved the taste of blood – of _John_ 's blood, to be more precise.

 _"_ You hit my face _carefully_... funny for a soldier who'd had a bad day."

John squealed when he felt the wetness of Sherlock's mouth on his stitches again, and enhanced the swaying so their upper bodies seemed to be waltzing. The lower part obviously wasn't as chaste, and again he wondered how Sherlock could deal with all the grinding – even if he was becoming more abandoned with each stroked note.

 _"_ And you... complained to Molly about me going to my sister's for Christmas."

 _"_ You said you... could probably not main...tain any long term relationship and st...stay with me at the same time... and you stayed."

 _"_ Oh, yes. I like the flat," John smirked, thrusting his hips _just so_ to elicit a gasp from the detective who clutched onto his back, now using his nails to engrave the concerto on his skin. John groaned.

He was trying to repress the very feral avidity that was burning in the pit of his stomach – trying hard. But at the same time, he was overwhelmed with something akin to adoration. His thumb and forefinger pressing either side of Sherlock's neck were loving, and his touch almost worshipping as he reached up to the very base of the skull, blowing fervidly on the sensitive skin of his throat, marvelling at the goose bumps forming on the delicate flesh. He traced ardent curves over the covered skin with the back of his hands, stroking Sherlock's body fervently in burning circles. He was melting under his touch, in turn contorting deliriously and surrendering ecstatically. John couldn't get enough of this body writhing for _him_ , submitting to _him._

Sherlock was close, hovering on the verge of release. But he was determined not to climax before the very last note of the concerto – and he dreadfully needed John to come with him. He had been brilliant. Sherlock had been broken and John hadn't tried to patch him up from the outside: he had broken himself down to pieces as well so they could merge and form a moving mass of splinters linked by sheer _momentum._

The pain hadn't faded away, it was exacerbated with the lust and want and Sherlock had never felt so damaged. So free, too. John wasn't repairing him, he was showing him how to dance with broken parts, thus annihilating the brokenness altogether. _You're broken and beautiful and crazy and completely inexperienced in this but_ _it doesn't matter,_ said the man's touch between his shoulder-blades, his nose against his ear and his mouth on his throat. _You're mad and you've driven me to distraction, you twisted, brilliant, insufferable man._ And Sherlock could almost hear the whisper: _Don't you dare leave me now_.

John pulled back suddenly to look into his eyes. The two lakes in his pupils were boiling off and were properly _sublimed_. Yes, as in sublimation, thought the doctor. The transition from the solid phase to the gas phase without going through the intermediate liquid phase. And indeed, Sherlock's eyes were now quite exquisitely _vaporous_ , not misting over, but truly _steamy_. John's throat went dry and in that instant he only wanted to drink him up to the very last drop.

Sherlock was feeling cold at the sudden loss of contact and increasingly nervous at his partner's stare, which he didn't identify as devouring (though it was) but as searching, and he was so lost he had no idea what John was looking for in his eyes. It frightened him to death that he might disappoint him yet again, and the shame crept back up onto his face, blushing it crimson.

John suddenly saw the rising panic and swiftly bent to take one cuppa which he brought to his friend's lips. Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed, not sure what this was all about, but John tilted the cup so the warm liquid, no longer burning hot as it must have been, wetted his lips and Sherlock felt compelled to open his mouth and let it seep into him, soak him and fill him, and if John wanted him to drink he would, even if it felt like an intrusion – he would drink it to its very dregs. He opened up more and moaned at the penetration. From now on he would never see tea in the same light.

But all of a sudden the cup was removed from his lips and Sherlock breathed in a whimper. His eyes widened and his pupils dilated even more when he saw John bring the cup to his own lips and take a sip. Never had he seen anyone drink tea so erotically. He desperately craved to lick and suck the warm liquid all back from that taunting mouth. But too soon John had put the cup back and was playing with the muscles on his back again, gently easing them round the blade, kneading mellowingly along the top of the shoulder, starting at the outer edge and moving towards the neck. He squeezed and rolled to ease the tension and Sherlock felt himself dissolve in his hands.

The damned word was burning his lips. He bit them fiercely and drew blood that didn't prevent the moans from escaping his throat. His fingers became more frantic and the allegro indescribably frenzied. John was kneading him like dough, uncautiously and with a burning passion, like a very keen breadmaker, Sherlock mused. Pressing the top of his shoulders with his thumbs, squeezing the little rolls of flesh with his fingertips and continuing the movement to the neck, ending with longer teasing squeezes, he kept drawing more and more groans from him.

John, who had slipped his hands under the obtrusive shirt, was marvelling at the feel of flesh in his hands, enjoying the texture, the changes in roughness and smoothness, the elasticity and the inviting warmth. He moaned and increased the length of the rolls, alternating strokes all the way down to the pelvis, exploring the area. He had no idea how he could have ever thought it would be enough to share a flat and watch from afar – to be just part of his life. Now he achingly needed to be part of _him –_ his organs, his flesh, his soul. He glided over the soft contours of the buttocks and hips, palpating them through the fabric, slipping a hand under the damp shirt and brushing the quavering skin in tantalising caresses. Sherlock bucked and arched his back and John would have sworn he was completely losing it, if not for the masterful fingers still expertly playing the concerto on the nape of John's neck.

The doctor knew that the lower back was usually a very vulnerable and strained area, and he wasn't surprised that Sherlock's was particularly tight – a perfect way to cut off full sensations. Earnestly, he pressed along the muscle bands evenly, kneading tenderly when he felt a knot or a tensed bulge, relishing in the texture and tightness. He matched the pressures he was inflicting on the highly sensitive nerves to Sherlock's exhalations, which were becoming more ragged by the second, sending shivers through his whole body. Each and every of his jolts and jerks and whines were positively electrifying John.

 _Hot lava_ , Sherlock thought distractedly. John's touch was turning him into hot lava, relaxing his body with strokes, arousing and stimulating it with caresses, heightening his senses. Making his entire body an erogenous zone, as the music filling their heads seemed to liven his mind, galvanizing his synapses. This was an incredible chemistry, something Sherlock had never thought possible, as it didn't involve inhaling or injecting any substance. It didn't matter why John was doing this – fingertips playing over his skin, releasing slowly, promising more. Never giving enough. It felt stupendous. That's when Sherlock realized that he wasn't losing control: he was giving it up. He could have pushed the other man away but he didn't. He wanted this. And he wanted more.

All at once he looked at John with wide eyes, dumbstruck. A flash of worry traversed the doctor's gaze and he froze, putting a hand on his shoulder and stabilizing himself on his partner's thighs.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

Panting and trembling, the two men stared at each other. Sherlock's eyes were limpid, and John wondered for a moment if he had come back to his senses and was going to be appalled at what they were doing. Seeing the burning irises, he felt panic rise up his chest: was this anger? Was Sherlock feeling better or worse? Would he throw him out or leave and drown himself into the Thames – or into cocaine, perhaps? Maybe John had gone too far, maybe he had been completely wrong, maybe he could never have fixed anything and...

"More."

There, he'd said it. The word that had been hovering on his lips, burning them.

John gawked. Sherlock, albeit breathless and flushed and _God did he_ have _to look so erotic with his creepy blue eyes and his stupid cheekbones and those bloody damp curls –_ had spoken in his usual low baritone voice, direct and toneless, as if he were just saying 'John, my phone.' Same authoritative manner, same intensity that was just impelling John to comply, always.

"You are incredible."

"Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you'd go..."

"How deep?" John cut in, smirking as he leant in closer, resuming his firm pressure strokes to penetrate the muscles, mixed with light, tantalising touches.

He realized Sherlock had never stopped playing the _allegro_ on his back. Now he was tapping up and down his spine, putting just the right pressure according to the note and John could hear the concerto filling the room with their panting breaths. He groaned when the fingers stopped on his sacrum and played with the line of his cheeks teasingly – not _teasingly_ , he corrected himself, but playfully in the literal sense of the word. It was all the more arousing because Sherlock truly was just playing and exploring his body quite genuinely, like he had done with the scar. Testing. Experimenting. Discovering.

John desperately yearned for the feel of Sherlock's skin under his hands but was adamant about not removing any of his clothes. He was amazed at his own self-control, but to be quite honest the fear of losing the detective kept gnawing in the pit of his stomach, and he was painfully aware of how fragile this situation was. They were playing with fire, because that was the only way to cauterize Sherlock wholly – and, well, because that's what they did, too. Play with fire.

John let his hands glide lightly down to the front of the sleuth's body and sneaked them under his shirt, allowing his fingers to spread around the knots of tension and trailing off with his fingertips, increasing the pressure as he stroked towards the heart. Sherlock was wriggling under the touch, looking delightfully helpless, but John was staggered to see that the jerks and thrusts of his whole body were in tune with the hands roaming his torso. _His_ hands, he marvelled. Was Sherlock now letting _him_ play him like an instrument ?

He carefully avoided the nipples, just teasing round the edge, and smiled as Sherlock growled and pressed their bodies closer, as if it would allow John's hands to plunge into his flesh and run it through. It felt like petting a very regal, demanding and capricious cat, yet delicate and so pleasantly _assailable._ Sherlock's fingers on his spine were dancing the notes and printing them on the exposed flesh claimingly and urgingly and God, John never wanted them to stop.

He realized in a daze that his own hands were actually matching Sherlock's. _Oh_. That was more like him. He was letting John _play_ him because he was in fact _playing_ John already. He chuckled and decided that deserved some more teasing, so he drew circles around both nipples, never touching them, until the detective was positively writhing. John grinned triumphantly and was already melting on the incandescent flame that was the man in his arms when a feral bite on his ear sent high voltage sparks throughout his body and he cried out.

" _Oh_ God..."

Scratch the cat. More like a panther.

He pressed with the pads of his thumbs and circled on the spot for penetration, pinching and rubbing the sensitive pectoral muscles. Sherlock squealed and arched his back, jerking his head back rapturously. John smiled and ran his hands all over the vibrating torso. He grasped the flesh with fervour and fondness, rolling it back with his thumbs pushed in, squeezing, lifting. He luxuriated in the variations of groans, moans and squeaks he could drag out by applying specific pressure to the joints, the deep tissue or the muscle over the bones. Sherlock's mouth was back on his ear, sucking, drinking up the blood he had drawn, almost mouthing the whole organ. The noises he made were thoroughly maddening.

Growing more breathless with each note stroked on his spine, John was now swaying his body frenetically, wriggling his pelvis, legs clenched around the chair so the rocking wouldn't make it fall and send them to the ground (because regardless of his overwhelming fear, beyond a certain point he knew he just couldn't be accountable for his actions). He let himself move to the music that was being ingrained on his very skin, setting him on fire. They were dancing like flames on oil.

Once more John's hands glided to Sherlock's backside, kneading the hips on the way and feeling them quiver deliciously. He cupped the rear, deepening the pressure and slowly pulling his hands apart, hugging them over the hips and down the thighs. Seeing the bulge in Sherlock's pants throb under the fabric sent him over the edge and he suddenly grabbed the trembling buttocks, kneading them passionately with a generous movement driven by his whole body swaying and rocking to the phantom violins. It was the most breathtaking music he had ever heard, in every sense. Sherlock's fingers on his back drew blood again, grazing the notes. John pressed the heels of his hands into the fabric, feeling the flesh tremble with trepidation, and made deep, probing, circling movements. He nuzzled against his friend's neck and drank his scent in, becoming intoxicated. Wanting to be part of him, merge his own flesh with his, disintegrate into thin air if only he could belong to that whole that was _Sherlock._

But he wasn't. Never could be.

What he could be though was the long-suffering, supportive, protective friend, and he vowed to never, ever fail him. Fanning and spreading his fingers, he followed the body contours around the lower back, hips and thighs, sweeping his hands upwards and outwards, shaping them to the curves of the flesh (or, rather, _angles_ ) and swaying his own body in tune, rhythmically. He toyed with the hip joint until Sherlock cried out, then moved to the inner thighs and pulled full mounds of fabric and flesh with quick plucking movements. Sherlock bit hard down his throat and sucked greedily, both crazed with lust and distraught.

John had him wriggling in the palm of his hand, yearning, aching and squirming for more. And not just more bodily contact. He wanted more of everything. More notes, more music, more dance, more room for images and sounds and sensations in his mind, more hands to play on the other's quivering flesh, more eyes to see and take everything in, more mouths and teeth to bite and taste, more ears, more lungs, more _John_ , more more more _more..._

A single, heart-rending sob racked his body and he forced himself to focus on his hands playing the _allegro_ on John's back, refusing to acknowledge the agony. The doctor however would have none of it. Aware at once that something was wrong and that his friend was faltering over an abyss he refused to see, he ran his nose softly from the base of his neck to his temple in a gentle stroke. _Shh... I'm here. Can't promise I won't let you fall, but... let's fall together._ Bringing his hands up, he caressed the curls, then brushed over the nape and pressed in small circles to release the tension. Sherlock put his head on his shoulder and wept quietly, limbs vibrating with a blend of desperation, anguish and sheer _want_ , playing the concluding _allegro_ on the nape of John's neck with something like devotion.

Embracing his trembling partner more closely, John started massaging the oddly-shaped scalp fondly with little relaxing pressures and wider strokes, tousling his hair affectionately and tugging gingerly at the roots. He could feel the sheer emotion rise in his chest and his eyes begin to shine. He closed them. _So much._ He loved him so much. He could have all the women he wanted, it would never amount to this.

With the back of his fingertips he traced tantalisingly up Sherlock's throat, following every detail, softly drawing up under the chin, gently brushing his forefinger around the crescent of the ear back and forth. Snuggling closer, he fondled the sensitive skin and played daintily along the line of the hair. He wanted to engrave every inch of Sherlock's skin in his mind, all of it, _now,_ for he didn't know if they would be so close ever again. The concerto was coming to an end.

John tried to catch his breath and murmured.

 _"_ You haven't lost anything, Sherlock. Your mind..."

He stroked the sensitive hollow above the collarbone and the dimple behind the ear, sending tingles down his spine, and Sherlock arched his back, chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

 _"_... is yours. It's brilliant and extensible and never-ending – a phoenix in flight."

He ran his fingers through the black curls while his right hand fondled the detective's back in a pampering touch, still swaying and bucking his pelvis, dancing. He could feel through the fabric the wetness in Sherlock's pants – and his own, too.

 _"_ Your music..."

He let his hand slide from the hair to the nape of the neck, caressing it reverently, and ran his fingers along the shoulder and arm in a light and adulatory touch, while his other hand cupped the buttocks. Sherlock shuddered into the touch and bit down on John's collarbone in an attempt to stifle the wail ripping up his body.

 _"_... is yours."

John smiled fondly. Whether cat or panther, Sherlock was such a feline. Impossible yet intoxicating. He slipped his right hand under the buttocks and pressed gently the perineal membrane through the fabric, adding regular strokes. Sherlock growled and sucked harder, nibbling rabidly.

 _"_ Your body..."

John replaced the soft caresses of his palm with little pressing motions of the heel of his hand, massaging rhythmically, his fingertips providing teasing strokes.

 _"_... is yours."

Sherlock screamed and convulsed under John's caress, hyperventilating, and shut his eyes tightly. He was terrified.

Aroused to distraction, too.

 _"_ And I..."

Sherlock bucked his hips furiously, half delirious but still playing the concerto till the end on John's back.

The tension was increasing in both bodies and John wondered dazedly if flames too could sublimate. From the very depths of the roaring fire he could feel a feral, primitive beat radiating in time to the feverish melody – and he could no longer tell whose heart it was. At the very last, lingering note, Sherlock dug his fingers desperately into the glowing skin, arched his back and with a final thrust and a whimper, reached his climax.

 _This is the way the world ends..._ , thought John as he held the writhing body and rode his own orgasm. The thought made him chuckle softly against the throbbing throat. Hearing John's quiet laughter Sherlock muttered something that sounded like 'stupid poem...' and tightened his grip around him, pressing their chests closer.

Cheek against cheek, feeling each other's warm panting breath on their napes, they allowed their bodies to harmonize in the orgasmic afterglow. John was slowly drifting away, giving in to the utmost relaxation settling in his flushed limbs, when Sherlock opened his mouth.

"John. We should get you back to the hospital."

John stayed still and was silent for a second, then started trembling, clutching the detective's shirt. Sherlock panicked.

"John ?"

He grabbed him by the shoulder, pushed him back. And stared. The man was _giggling_. Uncontrollably. Sherlock was baffled and goggled, confused. Was having a fit of laughter normal behaviour after... right. Nothing they'd been doing could be called normal. But still, _giggling_? He frowned, and John laughed even more.

"Are you quite done ?" Sherlock said, sounding almost offended.

"Sorry, it's just... that's probably the craziest after-sex line I've ever heard."

At this Sherlock froze and stiffened. John calmed down at once, but he was too tired to wash the lingering bliss and tenderness off his face. He moved back a little and looked down at the stitches (or what was left of them). Nothing he couldn't fix himself. Sherlock blushed and averted his gaze from the mess they had made.

"I know how to care for a wound, Sherlock."

"That you do..." came the mumbled reply as the detective buried his face in the crook of John's shoulder, clutching his back.

John nuzzled against the mop of hair, ready to fall asleep even though they were still on the chair, but he suddenly felt the wetness on his shoulder. Wrapping his left arm around the taller man's waist and rocking their pressed bodies gently, he stroked his hair and the soft skin of his nape.

"I'm fine, John."

"Of course you are. Better than that even, hopefully."

Sherlock chuckled through his tears and John would never forget how amazing that tickling sensation on his neck felt. Soon both of them were giggling like idiots.

"Stop giggling !"

"It's not a crime scene ! And you're giggling too."

"Hmpf."

"Oh that's eloquent, Sherlock, very eloquent."

"Shut up."

"You're the one who broke the mood first."

"What mood ?"

John rolled his eyes.

"You know, the one where you beg me for more ?"

It escaped his lips before he realized what he was saying and he froze. Sherlock pushed him back a little and John felt himself fill with dread. He was putting just enough distance between them to look him in the eye.

John couldn't help but stare and marvel. Despite his incarnadine lips where both their bloods mingled, Sherlock's tear-streaked face was endowed with a pristine glow and his pupils revealed bottomless depths. From the clearness of his eyes the tears kept pouring. But his smirk was unalloyed. John drowned.

"Not good?"

The voice called him back to reality. Not good ? What in the world... ? He felt himself melt and cupped the beloved face.

"Nope, Sherlock. It's good. Quite good indeed."

The detective relaxed slightly. Then he seemed to remember something and frowned.

"I didn't beg."

The doctor smirked and pinched his cheeks – he looked so juvenile and endearing that way it made John want to eat him up. He couldn't believe his luck – his flatmate was so dazed he actually let him play with his face as he pleased.

"Oh? Beseeched, then?"

Sherlock pouted and John had never wanted to kiss him more.

"I was just asking."

"Mmh, more like demanding."

He snuggled up once more against the other man's chest drowsily, half dreaming already of blood painted lips. He could feel Sherlock's body slacken blissfully against his. Sleep was taking its toll on both of them.

"But you know... If you were a word, you'd have to be that one, don't you think? You're never satisfied. You always want more. More cases, more data, more patches..."

"How could I be a word, John?"

"Never mind..."

Never mind, indeed. Everything could wait until tomorrow. For now, all that mattered was the warm figure breathing in his arms. _A sleeping tornado,_ John thought, and a comatose voice mumbled against his neck:

"Tornados don't sleep..."

Oh, how he had missed him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N.: Happy? Disappointed? Please tell me! Any kind of review is much appreciated :) I am thinking of doing a sequel, because it doesn't feel like only this could fix such a trauma, but I didn't want to include the 'next morning' in this story. Hope you've enjoyed reading! ~¤Zoffoli
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> [](http://zoffoli.livejournal.com/)  
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